“What should I tell him?” the bartender manages to ask.“Tell him,” she whispers, “there is no toilet paper, hand soap, or paper towels in the ladies room.”Three strangers strike up a conversation in the airport passenger lounge in Bozeman, Montana, awaiting their flights.One is an American Indian passing through from Lame Deer. Another is a Cowboy on his way to Billings for a livestock show and the third passenger is a fundamentalist Arab student, newly arrived at Montana State University from the Middle East.Their discussion drifts to their diverse cultures. Soon, the two Westerners learn that the Arab is a devout, radical Muslim and the conversation falls into an uneasy lull.The cowboy leans back in his chair, crosses his boots on a magazine table and tips his big sweat-stained hat forward over his face. The wind outside is blowing tumbleweeds around, and the old windsock is flapping; but still no plane comes.Finally, the American Indian clears his throat and softly he speaks, “At. Occasionally, when he returned home to visit the hills of Alabama where he was born, the roots and history that preceded him tormented his soul. It was the true love/hate albatross. “Let it go, Andrew.” Quietly, I took his hand and guided him out of the church door and to the pathway that led to the moon lit graves. He pulled me close to him, his arm around my waist, and we gingerly strolled hip to hip. He pointed over to area right at the edge of the hill. The view was spectacular! There were so few artificial lights to compete with the spectacle of stars. The smell of honeysuckle accentuated the air. “Look,” he knelt in front of a headstone, “Colonel Ronald Barton Calhoun, Favorite Son, Army of Alabama”. His fingertips traced the carving. He laughed with amusement of his own thoughts! “He won’t mind!” He stood up and reached behind the marker, in his hands was a blanket and a basket. He spread the blanket over the coping and set the basket beside it. He plopped down and patted.
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